


Do You Think Yourself Unworthy?

by TheAsexualofSpades



Series: Quarantine Drabbles [113]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: ...sort of, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), Arthur Knows About Morgana's Magic (Merlin), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Morgana Knows about Merlin's Magic (Merlin), Morgana was brainwashed and you will not convince me otherwise, Morgause was not good to Morgana and oof, Protective Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Protective Knights (Merlin), Protective Merlin (Merlin), Redeemed Morgana (Merlin), Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Uther Pendragon's A+ Parenting (Merlin), we're getting there at least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:41:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25284805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAsexualofSpades/pseuds/TheAsexualofSpades
Summary: forgiveness is earned, not bestowed.is a monster deserving of forgiveness?is it deserved if the monster hates that it is a monster?is it deserved if the monster only just realizes it is a monster?is a monster so bad?does he deserve it?does she deserve it?
Relationships: Knights of the Round Table & Merlin (Merlin), Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Morgana & Morgause (Merlin)
Series: Quarantine Drabbles [113]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677655
Comments: 21
Kudos: 349





	Do You Think Yourself Unworthy?

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to everyone for being so supportive about this little miniseries! here's to everyone who asked for more and no im not gonna leave it here, we'll get more, it's just gonna take me a bit

Fandom: Merlin (BBC)

Prompt: I'd honestly love to see a third addition, one more capsized by stories than happenings. I'm sure every Knight has something to add, something to regret, and with your writing I feel their regrets would be more sobering than simple whinging. - Letsnottalkaboutitaye

And on this or another note, if you felt like it, Morgana redemption could be beautifully angsty whether in this or a separate storyline *low key hint hint * - MonAlice

* * *

The pot smashes against the wall and shatters, sending pieces of broken pottery flying. The table cracks under the weight of a magic spell so powerful it vaporizes the top portion of the wood. It’s not enough.

It will _never_ be enough.

Morgana yanks at her hair, grown matted and tangled and _hurting_ as she scrapes her nails over her scalp, uncaring about the flakes of skin that come off under her nails. Her nails, grown cracked and sharp from years— _years_ —of hiding, cowering, powerless. It’s not enough.

She tries. She tries to bury herself in her fury, burn herself up in the rage just to stay warm, to stay conscious, to stay _alive_ but she can’t. It bubbles up inside her throat and she has no choice but to throw back her head and _howl._

The entire forest _quakes._

It’s _loud_ and _desperate_ and _grieving_ and _intense_ and _regret_ and _loneliness_ and _rejection_ and _fury_ and so many other things that the earth cringes, shuddering from the weight of it all.

It makes no difference to Morgana. They are all old friends.

She howls and cries and screams until her throat begs for a reprieve, her lungs ache, and her jaw cracks under the strain.

It wasn’t enough.

_Never_ enough.

She was promised an army. She was promised a force so powerful it would never stop, gaining more and more soldiers until Camelot fell under her assault. She was promised a _victory._ She was _promised—_ they _promised—_

Magic shudders under her fingertips and explodes, sending spoons and scraps of wood scurrying for cover. She clenches her fists and the sparks become bolts, relentless.

It’s not fair.

It’s not _fair._

Hasn’t she paid? Hasn’t she _paid_ enough, with blood, sweat, tears? With heartbreak, with loss, with _betrayal?_ How much more will they _take_ from her, how much more do they _want?_

How many more times must she fall before it’s _their_ turn?

It’s not _fair._

* * *

“What do you mean it’s not fair,” Lancelot asks gently, glancing back toward the camp where the rest of the knights are gathered, “haven’t you done more than enough?”

Merlin huffs, fingers focused on undoing the latch on Cara’s saddlebag. “It’s not fair. I haven’t earned it.”

“Haven’t earned what, Merlin?”

“The right to a knighthood,” Merlin bites out, “you know I haven’t.”

Lancelot stiffens. Then he reaches out and grabs Merlin’s shoulders, turning him to face him. “Don’t you _dare,_ ” he growls, “say that you haven’t earned that.”

“Lancelot—“

“You have _fought,_ ” Lancelot continues, “you have laid down your _life_ for Arthur and the others. You have laid down your _life_ for _me._ ”

Merlin falters under Lancelot’s hard gaze. The sincerity in the knight’s words makes his head feel fuzzy.

“You have protected us,” he continues, no less fiercely, “you have sacrificed so much for us, _risked_ so much for us. You have done more than many others who wear the knight’s title.”

Merlin’s mouth opens and closes, unable to summon any sort of defense in the face of Lancelot’s words.

“You have _more_ than earned it,” Lancelot says, finally gentling his grip on Merlin’s shoulders, “and I know that you don’t want it because you don’t want to do it for the glory.”

Merlin nods, unsure why Lancelot starts smiling softly.

“That’s not what it’s for,” he says quietly, “at least it isn’t to me.”

Merlin licks his lips, mouth running dry. “Then what is it?”

“You expect me to stand idly by while others are lavished with praise when you have done more?”

Merlin blushes, turning away as Lancelot chuckles.

“Come now, Merlin,” he teases gently, “you must know that I can’t let that happen. Neither can the other knights, we care for you too much to see you go so unnoticed.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Well, we do.”

“Lancelot!”

Lancelot laughs properly and it washes over Merlin like warm rain. “If you were to go without the recognition you _deserve,_ ” he says, “that wouldn’t be fair either, now would it?”

“But I don’t _want_ it.”

“Well, tough.”

“That’s not fair!”

“No, it isn’t, is it?” Lancelot smiles. “But that’s the way it is. You’ve paid, now you will receive.”

* * *

Morgana looks up to see a section of her roof caving in on top of her. Instead of moving out of the way, a bolt of anger directs her hands upwards, blasting the offending scrap to smithereens. She barely blinks as the detritus rains down around her.

How _could_ they?

She was one of _them,_ once, even though it makes her sick to her stomach now. She was _there,_ in the heart of Camelot, by their sides, _fighting_ for what was right.

They scorned her. They shunned her. They _chained her up_ for daring to speak out against the might of the great Uther Pendragon.

A mirthless laugh rings out in the destroyed space. _Great._

What made Uther so great?

His power? The man could barely swing a sword, let alone bend the world to his will.

His name? Morgana had that name too. Look how much good it did _her._

His people? Morgana scoffs. Uther looked at the people of Camelot and saw shields and gold coins. He didn’t care about his people.

His hatred?

Morgana smiles. She’s got more hatred than he.

She learned. She learned from the cruel hands and the cruel words that she couldn’t be soft. Couldn’t be _weak._ If she were to win she must be strong, unyielding. She must be _cruel_ to defeat the cruel.

Morgana balls her hands into fists. Her nails dig into her palm. Couldn’t they _see_ that she wasn’t the enemy?

* * *

“Your enemies are my enemies,” Percival says in a low voice as Merlin helps him take off his armor. Merlin glances up with a slightly confused face.

Percival covers Merlin’s hand with his own, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

“Where I come from,” Percival says quietly, “I did not always know who my enemies were. It was not always simple.”

Merlin’s fingers still. He’s _never_ heard Percival talk about his past like this.

“It is still not always simple,” Percival admits, never breaking eye contact with Merlin, “but you have shown me that it is better to fight alongside others than be too suspicious to try.”

Merlin blinks. “What—how—how have I shown you _that?_ ”

Percival smiles. “You came to Camelot as a sorcerer, did you not?”

Merlin nods.

“You knew of…Camelot’s opinion of magic, did you not?”

Merlin nods.

“And yet you still chose to make us your brothers,” Percival continues, “despite the fact that you had every reason to believe we would not accept the true you.”

Merlin privately wonders if they knew, if they _knew_ everything, they wouldn’t.

“We do,” Percival says sharply, evidently reading Merlin’s thoughts on his face, “we _do,_ Merlin.”

The knight hesitates, then rests a hand on Merlin’s shoulder.

“It takes bravery to trust someone when you do not truly know them,” he says, “and you have taught me more about bravery than most men.”

Merlin swallows the lump in his throat, unable to say anything. Luckily, Percival doesn’t seem to need much of a response. He simply pats Merlin’s shoulder and motions for him to go eat, pushing him down with a firm shove.

* * *

Morgana falls to the ground, her hands trembling on the cold earthen floor. Her knees wobble too much to support her anymore, the rage rendering her too wound up to stand.

And what a _waste_ of perfectly good rage.

She spent so long in Camelot, burning from the inside, snapping and sparking and spluttering uselessly. The fire didn’t do her any good; it just made her angrier and angrier, feeding it until she had no choice but to let it burn. Literally.

But then, then oh…she had been _saved._

Even now, huddled on the dirty floor with clouds gathering overhead, Morgana smiles.

Morgause.

Morgause had saved her. Taken her from Camelot, from the grasp of people who lied to her, _betrayed_ her and—and—

Morgana frowns. Why…why can’t she remember what happened? She can only remember waking up one day with her rage cooled into pure fury, honed and shaped into a weapon, poised to strike.

She glances around the ruined mess of her cabin. If she can just find her healing bracelet, she knows she’ll feel better. Even after Morgause had been _slain,_ the bracelet helped. It had her sister’s magic, it would—it would—

_There._

A gleam of amber winks at Morgana from under a stray beam. She scrambles for it, not caring that it makes her hands bleed and the uneven floor tear at her dress, she needs her bracelet. It’s wedged so far away that she can’t—she _can’t—_

Too upset to realize that she could just use magic, Morgana growls, throwing herself forward. She needs—she _needs_ —why can’t she just—

She wriggles forward, not caring about the truly _humiliating_ position this puts her in, straining, reaching, her body contorted painfully and _still_ she can’t reach, she can’t—

The realization of what’s happening hits her when she feels a drop of rain hit her bottom, high up as it is towards the open sky.

Shame rolls over her in waves. What is she _doing,_ crawling around on all fours, whimpering, whining like a frightened _child,_ and for what, a trinket? Morgana blinks and she’s not a child, she’s—she’s worse.

She’s an animal, solely focused on getting to the _shiny thing_ in the corner, rolling around in the filth, reduced to grunts and squeals when things don’t go her way. Pathetic tears roll fat streaks down her cheeks as she howls again, grasping futilely for her bracelet.

* * *

“Come now, Merlin,” Gwaine laughs, handing him a full bowl of stew, “you’re not an animal.”

Merlin sets aside the apple he’d been eating, gratefully accepting the bowl. He brings it close and has to close his eyes, just inhaling the lovely warm scent of the stew. The bowl is a comforting weight in his hands, sending shivers of warmth throughout him. Unconsciously, he hums, the pleasant aroma wafting in the air around him.

Gwaine chuckles. “Go on. Tastes as good as it smells, I promise.”

Merlin opens his eyes and takes the proffered spoon. Raising the first bit of it to his mouth, he pauses, letting the rick flavors roll around and around his mouth, making him smile.

“That’s incredible.”

“I would hope so,” Gwaine mumbles, “took them long enough to cook it.”

Merlin laughs. Gwaine looks up in shock.

“What?”

“Nothing, it’s just…” Gwaine blinks at him, all semblance of his normal swaggering persona fading away. “I haven’t heard you laugh in a while.”

Merlin thinks. “I…I haven’t, have I?”

Gwaine shakes his head. Merlin glances away, suddenly unnerved, taking another spoonful of the stew to buy himself some time.

“I…guess I haven’t had much to laugh about recently,” he confesses softly.

For a moment, he thinks Gwaine hasn’t heard him over the crackle of the fire and the murmur of the other knights. Then his bowl is roughly removed from his hands and he’s pulled into a tight hug.

Merlin flails awkwardly, not knowing where to put his arms, who’s hugging him, until Gwaine turns his head and Merlin slumps, the familiar smell of horses, ale, and cheese washing over him.

It’s Gwaine. It’s just Gwaine.

“I can’t imagine,” Gwaine says softly, “how hard this must’ve been for you.”

_It hasn’t been easy,_ Merlin thinks, nervously putting his arms around Gwaine.

“But you’re not alone, Merlin.”

“I’m—I’m not?”

Gwaine draws away, keeping one hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “You’re not,” the knight promises, “it’s no fun being alone.”

“Wait, weren’t you—don’t you—“

Gwaine waves a hand. “Let’s just say I think my days of roaming solo are over.”

He nudges Merlin with his other hand. “More fun with you, don’t you think?”

Merlin doesn’t dare hope for that much. Gwaine must see it because he softens. Comes a little closer.

“You’re not alone,” he promises, “never alone.”

When the rain starts to fall lightly outside the tent, Gwaine pulls him closer, out of the cold.

* * *

Morgana’s fingers shiver in the cold as the rain starts to fall in earnest, clutching the bracelet in her lap, the tears falling on her hands only slightly warmer than the rain. She can’t stop smiling, can’t stop crying.

She runs her fingers over the bracelet, the silver smooth under her fingers, and the amber stone polished to perfection. It’s beaten, a little, but it’s still _whole._

She can’t resist the slight tug of magic she can feel from it and slips it on, sighing through her sobs as she feels the faint twinge of magic rush through her veins.

It’s alright. Everything will be alright.

She has her bracelet, she has Morgause, she—

Morgana’s smile dims just the smallest bit. She doesn’t have Morgause. Not anymore.

Yes, she does.

No…no, she doesn’t, Morgause is dead.

Listen to Morgause, she has to listen.

L-listen to what? Morgause is _dead,_ she’s gone.

Morgause is right, Morgause is good. Listen to Morgause.

Morgana’s eyes widen as another pained shriek tears itself from her throat. Now that she looks, peers deeper, peels back the magic, a sickly sweet thread runs through her veins as the traitorous bracelet on her wrist glints up at her. She tears it off her wrist and hurls it away from her, not caring where it ends up.

She was _tricked._

No _wonder_ she can’t remember what happened.

No _wonder_ her rage shifted seemingly overnight.

No _wonder_ she became addicted to the bracelet so quickly.

Morgause…Morgause was not _good._

Morgause was not _right._

Morgause tricked her. Enslaved her. Made her think all those horrid little ideas crawling through her head were _hers,_ not Morgause’s.

Morgana throws herself to the floor, lying prone, begging whatever apathetic deity there may be to make it _stop._ When will it be _enough?_ When will she find someone that hasn’t _used_ her?

When will she finally stop being _alone?_

Is this what her magic is for? To turn her into a weapon that must always be used, to strike against whatever other the _great gods_ think deserves to be punished? Is that all she is, some weapon to be pointed and fired at the next target?

Morgana cries. She sobs, she weeps, she mourns.

Everything is gone now. Now that she looks at her hatred, she sees how much of her has been nothing more than a vessel, stuffed full of fury and greed and vengeance that she had no more room for her own. She sees the blood on her hands, the hardening of her heart, and when she takes that away, she has nothing.

_Nothing._

She had been told— _brainwashed_ _,_ first by Uther and then by Morgause—that her magic was a blessing. Something to right the wrongs of the world and bring things back to how they _should_ be.

It wasn’t a blessing. It was a curse.

Curse the Old Religion for making her this way, and curse the people who could not understand that she had no _choice._

* * *

“You always have a choice,” Elyan says as he fits Merlin for a new suit of armor, “even if you just have bad choices, you still have to choose.”

Merlin shakes his head. He doesn’t want to believe it. He knows he _could_ have made other choices, but at the same time, no he couldn’t.

“When Camelot outlawed magic,” Elyan continues, tugging Merlin’s sleeve down, “they outlawed the Old Religion too. Which meant everyone who simply practiced or worshipped the Triple Goddess would suffer the same fate.”

“But—“ Merlin can’t stop himself— “weren’t those just…normal people? Who chose to put their faith in that?”

Elyan nods. “Normal people. Like you—well, you’re not exactly normal—“

Merlin shakes his head.

“—But yes. Ordinary people.” Elyan looks up at him. “Like me.”

Merlin’s mouth drops open. “Y-you…you _what?_ ”

A soft smile comes over Elyan’s face. “I was raised in the Old Religion,” he explains, “so were my parents. So was Gwen. It was how we lived.”

“But Uther—Camelot—you could’ve been _killed._ ”

“Mm. Wonder what it must be like, hmm?”

Merlin’s mouth snaps shut. Elyan chuckles.

“I won’t pretend our experiences are the same,” he continues, going back to examining Merlin’s armor, “but just…you’re not alone, alright? And you’re not a bad person just for that.”

As much as he hates to give himself false hope, Merlin’s starting to believe them.

“I was born and raised believing magic wasn’t evil,"Elyan says, “but that it was a tool that could be used for good _or_ evil.”

Merlin nods eagerly. That’s right.

“You can use a knife to spread butter on toast or to take a life,” Elyan finishes, stepping back, “that’s up to you.”

He smiles kindly at Merlin. “You use it to protect, don’t you?”

“I try to,” Merlin mumbles.

Elyan comes up to him and places a hand on his shoulder. “Then you’ve done nothing so unforgivable, Merlin. Believe me.”

Merlin’s starting to.

* * *

Morgana draws her knees up and clutches them pathetically to her chest, burying her face in her arms.

It doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t matter that she was brainwashed.

It doesn’t matter that she was lied to.

It doesn’t matter that Morgause turned out to be no better than Uther, turning Morgana into a weapon.

Because she’s still done all those horrible things.

She’s still lied.

She’s still killed.

She’s still _slaughtered._

Disgust roars up in her stomach and she leans to the side, afraid she’s about to retch. What has she _done?_ How could she expect _anyone_ to forgive her?

Morgana keens, too weak, and too worn out to summon anything more. She curls up on her side, in the cold, in the rain, feeling the cold burrow into her veins, into her soul, chilling her from the inside out. It hurts.

Everything hurts.

Because she knows what she is now.

And it doesn’t matter that she wants to go back.

It doesn’t matter that she wants all of this to _stop._

It doesn’t matter that she’s changing, that she wants more than anything to just make _peace,_ to have all the fighting, the anger, the hatred, all of it _stop._

Tears come, more tears, because she just can’t stop crying, can she? But these aren’t the furious tears of a wronged warrior. These aren’t the fat, blubbering tears of a pathetic child.

These are smaller. Softer. Heavier.

These tears take their time as they roll down her face onto the dirty floor where she belongs. These tears ache and prickle at her exhausted eyes.

These tears are regret. Shame. Acceptance.

She knows what she is.

She knows what she is.

She _knows._

And for the first time in a long time, it _hurts._

She curls up tighter and weeps.

* * *

“Don’t cry, Merlin,” Arthur murmurs worriedly, reaching out to gently wipe Merlin’s cheeks, “please, don’t cry.”

Merlin sniffles, reaching for Arthur’s hands and grasping them joyfully. “N-no, Arthur, I’m-I’m happy.”

“Happy tears,” Arthur breathes, relieved, “happy tears.”

“Happy tears.” Merlin smiles breathlessly, throwing his arms around Arthur. “Oh, Arthur, I can’t—I _can’t—_ “

Arthur laughs, clutching Merlin tightly to him, rubbing his back. “So, you’re happy?”

“Happy?” Merlin pulls back and _beams._ “I could _burst._ I could die right now.”

“Don’t,” Arthur says quickly, even though they both know Merlin’s just joking, “don’t you go anywhere. Who else am I supposed to make my Court Sorcerer once I legalize magic?”

Merlin giggles, still wiping away his tears from his cheeks. Arthur watches him fondly, giving him a hand with the once that escape his own fingers. The chambers are quiet except for the last of Merlin’s heavy breaths, a pleasantly warm bubble that’s just for them. Just right now.

Arthur looks at him like he’s the sun and it makes Merlin float, reaching out to grasp Arthur’s tunic for fear that he might float away. He can’t stop giggling, can’t stop smiling.

It seems Arthur can’t stop smiling either, holding onto Merlin just as tightly. They’re here now, they’re _here._ After everything. After all they bled for, fought for.

They’re _here._

And nothing can take it away from them.

Arthur can’t resist, he pulls Merlin closer and into another embrace, this one slow and soft and sweet. Merlin snuggles into him, luxuriating in the warmth that spills between them.

He feels safe, protected, loved.

This…this is what he wants.

“Merlin,” Arthur murmurs, a twinge of apprehension in his voice, “do you…believe me now?”

Merlin pulls back, seeing Arthur stare at him, the tiniest hint of concern forming an adorable wrinkle between his brows. Merlin smiles.

“I do.”

Arthur’s grin is blinding and he pulls Merlin into a kiss. Merlin kisses back.

He’s here. He’s safe. He’s loved.

And he knows it now.

* * *

Morgana doesn’t move for a long time.

The rain comes and goes.

The sun hides.

She loses feeling in her arms.

Her tears dry on her cheeks and she doesn’t have the energy to produce more.

Not that any one would care.

Because who could ever love a monster?

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come yell at me on tumblr while we're all in quarantine. 
> 
> https://a-small-batch-of-dragons.tumblr.com/


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